Still time
by hikachu
Summary: He can see very clearly each mask slip, each effort they'd made during this last decade to go back to a normal life crumble away, revealing wounds still open, still pouring blood, still lamenting losses and wishes nobody is ever going to grant.


**S T I L L T I M E**

Just the idea, the concept behind all of this, is macabre in itself, Kamui muses angrily; because what does this mean, anyhow? What's the meaning hidden in the sparkle of white porcelain and translucent glass under the shower of electric light; what's the significance sealed into the soft glow of the white tablecloth and into everyone's smile?

Ten years turned Yuzuriha's cute face into that of a beautiful woman, though a trace of her childish charm is undeniably still there, lighting up her features and, by some mysterious process, also those of the massive man – a Dragon of Earth, he recalls as more creases appear on his forehead – standing next to her. Karen is as beautiful as ever, and even her smile holds the same warmth Kamui had gotten to know as an adolescent, the only change in that soft curve of flesh being a thin veil of something – wisdom, maybe, or even _mourning_ – which makes her look a little tired when her face isn't bathing directly into the light. This is also the first time Kamui sees Aoki's wife and daughter—a young girl who's probably as old as he was _back then_, shining brighter than anyone else, even though her blooming beauty is still too immature to even remotely to compare to that of any other woman in the room. But this evening she is the sun – unquestionably so – making any other pallid star disappear in front of her blinding light, for she and she alone was raised with only love and affection, amidst this cluster of cursed people.

Kamui stares at her face, mesmerized, though he is quick to advert his gaze when he mistakes her childish laughter for Kotori's. He lets his eyes be attracted to the oval table that stands in the middle of the room, as thoughts and memories run through his mind, blending and bleeding into each other mercilessly, to the point he has to stop again before he finally steps in, letting everyone else know he's arrived.

It doesn't last any longer than a few, solid moments, but he can see very clearly each mask slip, each effort they'd made during this last decade to go back to a normal life crumble away, revealing wounds still open, still pouring blood, still lamenting losses and wishes nobody is ever going to grant. Then, someone speaks – nothing more than a soft breath impregnated with weak syllables, really – and everything goes back to how it was before. "Kamui," this voice says, and it trembles a bit, somewhere between embarrassment and commotion, affection, too, but Kamui can't bring his feeling to become any less harsh.

Yuzuriha's arms come around him, warm and gentle and yet unmistakably full of life, just like they did many times, many years ago. He feels her shaking against his chest, and has to restrain himself from returning the embrace. Meanwhile, everyone else has approached him, forming a small crowd around him – and again it feels like ten years ago, when they'd come to him, waiting, uncertain, expecting their young leader to know what to do next, or, – Kamui can't help but add – to offer him kind words, to remind him they knew he was 'Kamui' before he was the one who yelded god's power, that he had all the rights to focus on his wish, for all of them were fighting to protect what they held precious. He remembers, and, somehow still grateful, he doesn't hate.

But as words of greeting fill his ears, as he sees many eyes acquire a new spark in them – one made of water and salt and horrible, horrible things they'd experienced together – Kamui finds himself searching for faces he holds dear but that he already knew wouldn't be there to greet him: it is only a faint trace of Sorata's features that he can spot into those of a child standing almost proudly a few feet away from him. He is young—can't be older than ten years, obviously—and yet there is a deep seriousness etched into his eyes, into the thin line of his mouth; an expression so painfully different from the one his father (oh, and it felt just so strange, using that word) always wore, and yet painfully similar to that of the young woman standing right beside him, one elegant hand firmly clasped around his shoulder.

Arashi's eyes meet his under her son's scrutiny, quietly curious and searching. Kamui watches as she acknowledges him with a slight nod of her head, yet showing no sign that she's going to approach him as the others did; he sees her, sees this, then looks back at the young boy and wonders if the striking resemblance between him and his mother isn't due to the feelings, the memories she must have passed onto him in these last ten years, rather than to her genes. Kamui wonders, observes, and finally notices how, indeed, the boy's forehead is a bit too high—like Sorata's was; how his eyes are large and vivid although serious; he notices all of these little things and understands the tie between him and Arashi. He sees how their feelings mirror each other's, but it's because he can understand – no, not _feel_, but just 'understand' – her grief, that Kamui knows they can't help each other. He knows, the loss they experienced (and still experience day after day, because the lack of something or someone stays forever with you, when they are never going to come back) can't be healed; he knows the pain and the thousands of other feelings that it brings can't be erased or diminished, either. In any way. So he just nods back, letting himself feel a little less lonely for this night.

Kamui's grown up; his shoulders are broader and he's become taller, but his frame is still pretty lithe for someone his age. Aoki's hand reminds him of this fact, as it wraps around his, enveloping his thin fingers almost completely. The hold is warm and gentle, and Kamui considers distractedly that, had he ever known his father—had it been his father to shake his hand like this, the feeling he'd have experienced wouldn't have been much different. He looks at his right, and sees Yuzuriha now clinging to his arm; Inuki – not a puppy anymore – stands at her feet, and barks playfully, trying to catch Kamui's attention. Karen giggles, and lets herself ruffle his hair, although – and Kamui knows it – she's never considered him a child.

Had he been the type who knows how to speak openly of his feelings, who can open his heart without feeling weak or childish or stupid, Kamui would thank everyone, and maybe even shed a few tears, because he's glad they – _at least they_ – are fine; he's glad that they're alive, still fighting to find their place in this flawed world, still reaching out to grasp their own happiness. And seeing these two children here, he can see a figment of what tomorrow is going to be like, and he hopes—no, no, he _knows_ that they're both receiving enough love to be able to treasure it, to let it grow inside of their hearts, and offer it to anyone who will need it – need _them_ – someday. Kamui thinks that if they're here, if that 'tomorrow' will actually happen, is also thanks to him, despite his many mistakes, and the thought gives him strength—a silent force which stretches itself throughout his chest, reaching every cell, warming his heart: he's proud; he feels a faint kind of accomplishment, as if, in the end, what he did, what he lost, was not in vain.

But Kamui is too frail, too shy in his own way, to know how to communicate all of these emotions and thoughts. He's just too frail, really, to let such a selfish thing as pride erase the absence of the people he lost; he can be glad for everyone else, but he can't relish in their joy. He loves them, but not as much as those he lost, those he hurt far too deeply, and that's what will always make a difference.

It's when Karen asks for his jacket (so that she can put it somewhere else and he can be more at ease and finally—finally what? What is he supposed to do? Enjoy himself, perhaps?), that Kamui finally snaps back to reality, remembering what drove him here in the first place.

"Fuuma," he murmurs, slapping away Karen's hand. Her fingernails are scarlet and full of glitters, and he's not sure (after all, he was very, very young, and he could be just making it up unconsciously) but Kamui thinks he's seen the same nail-polish sparkle on his mother's nails, even if only once or twice, back when they still lived in Tokyo, near the temple, and aunt Saya would come in smiling, playfully reproaching his mother for not taking enough care of herself, of her appearance. The last remnants of his fleeting satisfaction fade away as he wonders if this present is what auntie and his mother chose to die for. Then, he speaks again; this time louder.

"Leave Fuuma out of this," he spats, and the venom lacing his voice is the same of those first days in Tokyo, when he believed everyone was an enemy to be fought, "He doesn't remember anything, and that's how things must stay, for everything that happened ten years ago is my fault and my fault alone."

"Kamui-san—" Yuzuriha begins, but Kamui cuts her off, roughly disentangling his arm from hers.

"I swore," he says, glaring as if the source of his anger was there, in front of him, "that when I'd get Fuuma back, I'd make it so that he wouldn't suffer anymore—no matter what consequences I'd have to face myself, because his happiness is far more important than anything else. Even if it means hiding things from him—He's suffered enough." And he hadn't intended to raise his voice so much; hadn't meant to break these people's smile; he didn't want to cause anyone else pain, but—

"I don't even get what is this supposed to mean—What are we celebrating today? The people I let die? Or—" then Kamui stops suddenly, covering his face with his hands, skin fiercely rubbing against skin: is he really so weak that he needs to hurt these people, to keep his promise? "I—Please, just—just don't ever try to contact us again," he finishes, and his tone is a bit gentler, his voice lower; his gaze softens and then dances to touch everyone else's.

Kamui loves these people. He loves them less than he loves Fuuma, less than he loved Kotori, or his mother, but it doesn't mean he doesn't care for them enough to be thankful, once again, that they can read through his hard eyes and harsh words, even though they can't understand his sorrow. "Please," he repeats, running a hand through his hair and then pulling enough for it to hurt.

When he lets go, no one has answered yet: it's clear that nobody will, by now, yet Kamui knows they are going to respect his will, for they love him too—maybe even more than he loves them. And if he wasn't such a weak fool, he'd apologize. Instead, he simply chooses to retreat like coward he is: long, hurried strides to the door, and no more words uttered from either party.

It's only when he's about to enter the elevator, that Arashi's voice reaches him: "Please, wait," she says rather emotionlessly, "I'm also leaving."

It's the first time after ten years that he hears her voice.

When they're finally inside the elevator, Arashi sighs, leaning her back against cold grey metal, and lets her arms wrap loosely around her son's shoulders: he's tired, and buries his face into her side as if it were a soft cushion. It's something new, for Kamui, seeing the ex-priestess of Ise like this—less detached and more human, and yet losing none of her distant charm. Only Sorata, he tells himself, must have seen her like this before.

Bones of jade and skin of moonlight—The perfect Japanese beauty. That's what she is, with her hair as black as ink and deep, almond-shaped eyes; silent and well-mannered, and yet quietly proud in the way she carries herself. Dignified, yes, hiding a secret strength which keeps her from falling even when the battle becomes too gruesome, too hard for her thin wrists and delicate ankles. Arashi is wise – already was, ten years ago – in her own way, and this is what attaches a severe quality to her beauty. Looking at her is like looking at a wonderful landscape covered in snow: full of beauty and yet urging you not to get too close, and in this aspect, she reminds Kamui of Subaru; of his distant but dazzling green gaze, of his dark hair and gentle features, always covered by a thick veil of stoic sadness.

Kamui pictures his visage on the back of closed eyelids, swallowing; his fingers searching again his forehead, his palm obscuring again half of his face. Subaru—Differently from Arashi, Subaru had been but an ephemeral snowflake, letting himself be dragged to the ground, cruelly and inexorably, and no matter how much tragic grace had embellished his fall, watching him melt and disappear and forget himself had been too painful.

"It seems that Imonoyama-san tried to reach Sumeragi-san in many ways, but it was all in vain," Arashi says suddenly, almost as if she could read his mind, and Kamui panicks, his eyes widen and he finds himself trembling, irrationally. So foolishly. Arashi's eyes are sharp, her body language speaks of firmness once again, and Kamui takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He understands, he knows, this is also something he should be thanking her for, but instead he says:

"I don't think he'd have come, anyway." And his tone is absent, as if he doesn't care, but both he and Arashi know it's quite the opposite.

Then she says: "I guess everyone chose what they think is best for themselves," and the unspoken words – _even his decision is to be respected_ – hang in the air between them.

Kamui nods but thinks that Arashi is mistaken for once, because he believes that Subaru has never made any choice thinking only of his own happiness.

The silence that follows is not a comfortable one, but neither of them tries to break it because, they know, words are useless anyway. And they part in silence too, not expecting to see each other again, trying hard to remember how to breathe and swim through the present after this encounter with the past.


End file.
